


Eyes Cold, Calculating.

by orphan_account



Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: (Mild Necrophilia Actually), Bad Spelling & Grammar, Blood, Blood and sex, Blood on Private Parts, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Web, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Inconsistent Verb-Tense, Incorrect Usage of Parenthesis, Kissing Dead Bodies, Knifeplay, Marriage, Nail Removal, Necrophilia, Non-Canon Fluff, Non-Canon Mercy and Happiness, Non-Canon Relationship, Oral Sex, Out of Character, Scalping, Sex, Stuff That Would Fly Here But NOT On Tumblr, Torture, Vague Sex, Violence, bad words, proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-02-05 13:35:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21417826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "He didn’t mean to marry her. That’s what he tells himself when he sees her in the living room everyday, away in her studies, her eyes entranced by the words before her. He thinks to himself how beautiful she would be split in half, cracked open; but he likes this one. Actually likes this one. He won’t hurt her. Not that much."Or, the one in which Strade catches feelings for a girl whose a little bit too comfortable with him.
Relationships: Strade (BTD/TNR)/Female Reader, Strade (BTD/TNR)/Reader, Strade (BTD/TNR)/You
Comments: 5
Kudos: 89





	Eyes Cold, Calculating.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, if you like this please consider leaving a like or a comment, as it lets me know what kind of stuff I should keep writing.
> 
> I'm trying to explore darker stuff in my fics rn, and a different writing style as well that doesn't make me fizzle out towards the end.
> 
> Also, I want to be curbstomped by Strade.
> 
> <3

He didn’t mean to marry her. That’s what he tells himself when he sees her in the living room everyday, away in her studies, her eyes entranced by the words before her. He thinks to himself how beautiful she would be split in half, cracked open; but he likes this one. Actually likes this one. He won’t hurt her. Not that much.

There have been moments that his self-control has been less than stellar; they both learnt something about themselves the first time. He always considered himself to be somebody who had a great sense of discipline, but despite his better instincts (he had to convince her that he was an upstanding citizen somehow, right?) he had bitten a little too hard, rocked a little too rough, and at some point, his hand had snaked up around her neck and began to squeeze. After they had both climaxed, he saw her eyes begin to roll back, her lips a soft tinge of blue, and a faint smile still lingering on her face. She had screamed her way through her finish, as he had let out his own animalistic grunts and moans. They both had never felt like that before; and so they both learnt something new about themselves. 

Since then, he pushes the boundaries every time, and she enjoys it. When they’re not alone, like that, she’s prim and proper, an ex-professor who retired to her studies and has a condescending sense of cynicism in conversation with anybody other than her husband. In public, she would stand tall and strong, only speaking when absolutely necessary. Strade would smile and chat with people, apologizing for his wife’s behaviour, saying that she got nervous in public. Her eyes would follow him. Cold. Calculating. She picked apart his thoughts; she always knew who he enjoyed interacting with, and who he was faking it around. She would point out these things when they got home, and he would devolve into rants about those who he wished would disappear. 

(He would never kill them; they would never be in the basement. 

The people that ended up there were the people he liked. They were the ones who caught his eye, who followed him in conversation. The pain created an inseparable bond that would take time to sever, to melt away. She made them fall away quicker.)

But he never meant to marry her. He meant for her to end up like the rest of them. 

However, when she had gotten in his car that night, being drove off to her death, something in her eyes as she looked over to him tested him; she saw through his act. She didn’t know what she was looking for, per se, but she knew that beneath his friendly demeanour was an outlier. She was interested in the outlier, and the outlier was interested in her. His hands had began to tremor on the steering wheel; he was scared of her. He had never felt fear before. At first he didn’t recognize the emotion. But he imagined taking her into the grimy basement, and hearing what she would say;

“You live like this?”

“This is vile.”

And he was afraid of that. In the car, she looked bored with him, waiting for him to snap and show her what she was waiting for. That alone, felt awful to him. He was boring her. And if he cut the fingers off of her hand, or cracked her ribs open in a grandiose display of torture, all he could imagine was her bored eyes staring back at him. Staring into him. 

So when they got home, he didn’t take her to the basement. He didn’t mention the basement. He made her a dinner and they drank wine and talked about literature, and then had rough (in a normal-rough way) sex on the kitchen counter. Afterwards, he offered to watch a movie with her. She joked about the order in which the night had gone, saying it felt unorthodox. They watched the movie. She let him pick. He picked one of the later Saw movies, which he had on DVD. 

She sensed something about him from that choice; 

“Not exactly the first date kind of movie.”

He looked over at her, and there was a playful curiosity. She was judging him again; normally if somebody was judging him the way she was, he would have bashed their head into a wall and dragged them out for an unceremonious shooting. But somehow, under her gaze, he wanted her to make a judgement; he wanted to be interesting to her.

“Does it bother you?”

She shook her head.

“I like this one.”

They cuddled watching the movie like it was a romantic comedy. And in a way it was. 

They had sex again after the movie, and this time, they were both desperate. It was special. They were thinking about the movie, and in a way, they could both tell.

He drove her to her job the next morning. She was still a professor then. She didn’t wave, or say goodbye. Instead, she looked over her shoulder to stare back at him from under her lids (Kubrick or lust?) like…. well, she wasn’t judging anymore. She had made her judgement. Strade felt her looking through him; his persona of the friendly and sweet man who liked drinks a little too much. She saw who he was when he was in the basement. And she liked it. She walked off without a second glance. 

Strade drove back home and stared down at the body on the floor until the face became hers. He cut the woman open slowly, intimately, and finger-fucked the wounds as he went. The woman who has pretending to be her (at least in his mind) screamed and called him names. But he drowned it out; he imagined her, moaning and sweaty, begging him for both mercy and more. There was a moment, where he lost himself, and he took the woman gently by the back of her head and slowly brushed his lips against hers. He kissed her, if only for a second, and then she regained enough fight to bite down on his bottom lip, drawing blood immediately. 

It was not a loving bite; not one of play or desire. It was one of hate, and despise. 

He put a nail between her eyes and spit on her, and then drove her body out to be buried. He didn’t want to look at her. He didn’t want to look at any woman. He wanted to see her, writhing, bloody, alive but barely. He wanted to bring her back from that place then, and hold her close and wipe her tears and touch her with love. Then he wanted to do it again. 

But he wouldn’t; he wouldn’t lose her. He wouldn’t risk it. 

The second date opened with sex, had a sex-interlude, and then closed with it as well. There were moments in between; a movie theatre, a dinner, another movie at home filled with gore and bits and blood. But the moments (aside from the gore, which was a special thing they silently shared with each other) blended into each other. He loved the way her body felt underneath him, he loved the way the sheets rubbed against them, he loved the way he could replace the feeling of her slick with the feeling of blood; pretend they were one and the same. The same went for the small web of spit that connected their lips, and for the iron-vice grip he had on her hips? He imagined his nails splitting the tense skin right open, popping open like a pin to a balloon. 

She imagined the same. 

She had never truly experienced pain; she was scared of it too (not many things scared her, but that one did). She didn’t really want it. But she wanted the peril.

For a moment, she wanted to place her life in his hands, give a second where she had absolutely no clue what could happen, and her life hanged in the balance. And then, she wanted him to give it back to her, taunt her with it maybe, but none the less, give it back to her. But to ask him, she would have to trust him with her life; she saw the glint in his eyes when they watched those movies together, and she didn’t trust him right now to give, if given, her life back. 

(He wouldn’t keep it; he wouldn’t lose her. He wouldn’t risk it.)

He proposed to her two years after the first date. He did it in a cabin on a lakeside while they were on vacation.

(Vacation for them often consisted of something quiet, where they would only experience each other.

A lot of each other.)

While they were both in their underwear on the porch of the cabin, she asked him about what they wanted to do with their future. His answer was thoughtless; it slipped out.

“I don’t see a future without you, liebling.”

She blushed and kissed him on the cheek; sentiment like that was rare between them.

Of course, their love for each other burnt brighter than the sun, and larger than the universe itself, but they rarely felt the need to tell each other that. Hence, it was special when they did. 

“You better do something about it then. Tie me down sometime soon, or I might run.”

His mind raced at tie me down, and he thought about doing it, but instead, he proposed to her in that instant. No glamour, but that was perfect for them. She gave a simple nod, and a gentle, unwavering smile painted her face as she looked out at the lake, the sunlight reflecting off her eyes.

They never had a wedding. Sometimes they talk about it, but they always inevitably decide that it’s a lot of work to see a lot of people that they don’t really like.

Two years after that, she found out what happened in the basement. One day, when Strade was out getting groceries for dinner that night, she accidentally found the basement door that was normally locked.

(Strade told her that it had been locked off when he got the place, and that he didn’t know how to unlock it.

She suspected it was a lie as it left his mouth, but part of being married to him was learning not to question.)

She heard a low moaning coming from the basement, and went to investigate it. For the first time, he had forgotten to lock it, having been hurrying when he realized he forgot the errands. It was a crack open when she found it, and a sense of glee filled her when she realized she was right. She loved being right. It was her favourite part of academia. She pushed the heavy door open and carefully made her way down the stairs, taking in the pungent odor that wafted through the room.

(The reek of death; she knew it.)

There was a man tied to a pipe along the wall by some rope that was cinched tightly around his wrists. He was covered head to toe in cold sweat, his body shaking; she couldn’t tell if it was from the shivers, or if it was the gash running from his sternum down to right about the band of his sweatpants, which had once been grey, but were now flooded a deep scarlet. She walked over to him. Eyes cold, calculating. She crouched in front of him, his head hanging limp. He might’ve been dead, she thought. In reality, he was hopeless, assuming that the man, his tormentor, had come back for more. She grabbed his chin to force their eyelines together. When he saw it wasn’t him, his eyes filled with hope. 

“Thank god, you have to help me. He trapped me in here, he’s a goddamn psychopath.”

She chuckled a little, and stood up, looking around the room more. She counted the weapons in the room; she could place the purchase of all of them. A few she had even bought herself as gifts; she thought that he was into construction work, but at the same time had always wondered why he needed all of those things if not a single thing was actually constructed in their house.

“Do you hear me?! He’s going to kill me if you don’t help me.”

His voice quivered and cracked as he pleaded with her for his freedom.

She only felt… desire. She wanted Strade back right then, right there, and she wanted to see what Strade had been doing all these years. Then she wanted to take him on the dirty linoleum floor as the corpse stared at them. 

(She never did tell him that she knew, or what she wanted; there was a nagging fear that if she did, he would no longer see her as special.

Then, she would be in the man’s place.)

She drowned out the man’s pathetic cries, growing interested in the laptop that still seemed to be livestreaming. There was a camera connected to it, capturing the entire encounter between her and the man. She crouched in front of the laptop, sussing out the interface that was livestreaming the footage. There were rolling comments, most wondering where Strade had gone, and a tally in the top left corner of how much money he had made off the livestream. A special slot for top comments, coming from the top contributors. The comments slowly began to morph into questions of who the woman was, and why she was safe. 

As she began to put more of the pieces together, she put a shushing finger to her lips, looking into the camera lens.

“He can’t know I was here, so you all better shut the fuck up when he gets back.”

She got up and took her time leaving. In that time, the man started shouting at her, no longer begging.

“I’m gonna tell him; I’m gonna tell him and he’s gonna kill you after he’s done with me.”

She turned around, looking at the man with disgust and shoved two fingers into the wound, twisting them around and watching him wriggle around her.

“You’re gonna keep your filthy mouth shut, or I’m going to kill you myself right now.”

He sighed in relief when she pulled out her fingers, and left the room, this time shutting the door properly behind herself. It locked automatically when she did. 

Truthfully, it didn’t matter whether the man told Strade. She would come up with a lie. And he would believe it, because he wanted to. 

(And he was going to find out anyways.)

They had a pasta dinner that night, and when they had sex later that night, Strade noticed something a little bit more primal about her than normal. 

He snuck out of bed at one in the morning, when he was sure she was asleep. The second he headed into the basement, noticing the camera still livestreaming, the comments all woke from their slumber, hollering about the woman they had seen, asking if she was next, asking who she was, already giving suggestions. Strade was initially confused, but was quick to put together what had happened based off the comments describing her. 

He thought, before, that if something like that had happened, he would kill her off, or trap her down there, and he would be angry with her for not minding her own business. But in that moment, he felt proud of her. Proud of her for finding the truth. Proud of her for apparently bringing pain onto the man against the wall, whose name Strade had forgotten. He smiled thinking about her in here, being his partner in crime, an option that had never been mentioned before. But he didn’t have the balls to confront her about it, just in case he was wrong, just in case he was crazy, just in case it meant that he would have to let her go then. She was the best thing in his life, his one tenant of sanity, and he would not let that go easy.

The truth would come out a year later. 

That night, it was a young blonde woman he had picked up at the bar, as usual. She had been stripped of her fingernails and toenails, shaved and carved, and an eye had been taken out of her head with a spoon (and then fed back to her). By then, he had stopped fucking them; every once in a while, he would find himself interesting in fucking a wound, but touching the actual people that way felt wrong now. It felt like cheating. He didn’t want to cheat on her. 

He was clumsy though, getting flustered by an argument the two had that night over something stupid, and not tying the ropes properly. When he turned his back to assemble equipment, she broke free, sprinting up the stairs, and straight out of the room. Strade was quick to follow, but found a barrier between the hallway where the basement door was and the living room, where the girl was, howling and pounding on the door. His heart raced as he realized that she was bound to wake her up.

(He couldn’t see that she was already awake, hidden in the kitchen shadows as she had been in there thinking over the argument.

Thinking about the basement.)

The girl didn’t see her either, caught up in her hysterics. She didn’t see her come at her with a kitchen knife, clipping her Achilles tendon in a swift blow that took her down immediately. Strade did though, and he watched in aroused shock as she pulled apart the makeshift barrier and started dragging the girl by the ear across the hallway. When she got to the basement door, she threw her down the stairs with a huff, wiping herself clean of the blood that had sprayed over her.

She turned around to face him, eyes cold, calculating. He smiled at her, proud. 

He pinned her against the wall as he kissed her, holding her wrists above her head. His arousal grinded into her, and she moaned into his mouth, both of them singing to the melody of the girl crying in the basement. The secret was out, and it felt better than ever. 

He pulled apart from her, still holding her wrists tight. “How long have you known?”

“God, so long.”

“And you never thought to call the cops?”

“And get you in trouble? Never.”

He went in for seconds, one hand drifted up her shirt to feel around at what she hid underneath. After the upstairs semantics, they headed into the basement hand-in-hand, and he pulled out a chair for her to watch. She sat patiently and quietly as he scalped the poor woman clean, and then continued, slowly skinning her whole body. 

At some point, he invited her to join, guiding her along in the process, explaining the techniques he had developed to her with such pride in his accomplishments. She shared it with him, because she was proud of him. He was special. He had talent. 

She botched it though, and the girl started bleeding out quickly. She apologized profusely to Strade, but he was only forgiving. It was her first time after all, there was no way that she would know how to pull that off. It took him years to learn himself. She smiled at him, and naturally, because it was them, it devolved into them tearing the clothes off of each other, and soon, he was between her legs, and this time, the slick was blood; they were lying in a pool of it. 

She reached up onto the table, grabbing a hunting knife, and handing into to him. He took it from her, and gave her a careful stare. Are you sure? She nodded hungrily, propping herself up on her elbows to watch him. He dove back in between her thighs, tongue working her emphatically, and this time, as his nose brushed against her folds, the knife teased her clit. Her head dropped back as she almost went blind from the pleasure. She breathlessly begged him for more. As he positioned himself over her, the knife traced her belly, nicking her here and there. She didn’t mind. His mouth spent a few seconds on each slice, his own form of immediate after care. 

As he fucked her, her legs wrapped around his waist and his head buried into the crook of her neck, her eyes glanced over to the dead ones next to her, staring at the corpse. She remembered the man, the one who had called her the names, and then she thought of how annoying the woman had been, crying and begging. She was special to him; she was here, in this basement, with her life in his hands, but she knew that he would give it back to her. Her life, it was for them to share. Same with his.

She was here, in this basement, but she would leave, and they would eat breakfast and lunch and dinner all the same, as if nothing had happened.

And then, as it would continue happening for the next years, he would go out to find somebody new about once or twice a week, and he would come wake her up when they were ready and they would go down into the basement together, and he would teach her, and then they would lose themselves in each other, getting rougher and riskier every night.

But no matter what, she was always out safe the next day.


End file.
